Moonstruck (2 page)

Finn exhaled as his pulse slowed. A pickpocket this time; a thief with more murderous intent the next. He was a target. The men and women in his crew were targets. No matter how tattered their uniforms, they were several levels up from what most people wore around here. Any one of them could be ambushed at any time, ending the day lying on their backs in a pool of blood for the price of what little of value they had in their possession. The Borderlands had always been a dangerous place. Now there was an air of acute desperation.

But Finn might have a way out of this dead end spiral, an escape.
An escape or a trapdoor?
He didn’t know. His mysterious summons from Coalition Headquarters commanded that he show up at the Ring next Septumday. The accompanying message was a personal one, issued by Chief of the Coalition Naval Command, Prime-Admiral Zaafran, as if the idea of Finnar Rorkken, formerly the Scourge of the Borderlands, aboard the Ring wasn’t surreal enough. Good gods, what was next, a love letter from Admiral Bandar? The way things were going, he wouldn’t be surprised to see ol’ Stone-Heart herself sitting there when he arrived.

He almost wished she were. After all the games of hide-and-seek they’d played in the Borderlands, he felt as if he knew her. A more worthy opponent he’d never encountered. If he ever had the chance, he’d buy her a drink and brag about all the times she’d thought she’d had him in her clutches, only for him to slip away again. He respected her, aye, admired her, but he had to admit the male in him was more than a little curious about the woman at the helm of the
Vengeance.

No one knew what she looked like, although there’d been many guesses bandied about. No one who’d met her ever returned to pass along the juicy details. They were either dead or scraping luranium out of the mines on a prison asteroid. Not him, oh, no. He’d led her on one merry chase after another across the Borderlands until she’d been called away for more pressing duties: battles more critical to the survival of the Coalition than catching a pesky pirate.

The war, over—it was damned hard to imagine. Now that he was out of a job killing her people, and she was out of a job killing his, maybe they’d have time for that drink after all.

You’re delusional, Rorkken.
Aye. Something told him that Stone-Heart didn’t view him in quite the same way he did her.

Smirking, Finn clamped a nano-pic between his teeth as he scoped out the noisy, crowded, shadowy bar. Bioputers spread through his mouth in a refreshing wave, eliminating any sourness. The pic was a welcome little novelty found amongst other, more important supplies taken on that Borderlands raid. The Coalition had lived with high-tech for generations. The Drakken lived with whatever they could steal or, rather, appropriate. Other than their machines of war, their weapons, they were centuries behind the Coalition in technology.

There was a newcomer to this two-sided game: Earth. When it came to tech, Earthlings made the Drakken look downright advanced. Luckily for Earth, it was protected under its new status as a Holy Shrine, thanks to it being the birthplace of Queen Keira’s consort, quite an achievement for such a far-flung, water-covered little rock.

A burst of singing drowned in angry shouts. Glass shattered. Someone cried out. Finn rolled his eyes. It was time to haul his crew out of the bar before they were too drunk to find their way back to the ship. Then he’d tell them the news.

The musical tinkle of female laughter drifted over to him. A group of women stood off to the side, giggling and ogling him, waiting for a signal to come closer, one or all of them. An image of their naked bodies writhing under and over his lasted only seconds and barely registered between his legs. Zaafran’s orders and what they could mean commanded too much of his imagination. If the outcome was as good as he hoped there’d be plenty of time for such sport soon, for him and his crew.

With a sly, regretful glance in the direction of the women that got them tittering all over again, Finn crossed to the rear of the bar. He found his second-in-command leaning heavily on a grimy counter, his eyes glazed over with a telltale fog. “Gather the crew, Zurykk. We’re off.”

“We’ve only just gotten started, sir.”

Finn circled his hand. “We’ve got orders out.”

“Orders?” Zurykk dropped his boots. The skinny little wench wrapped around him protested. She was small, hollow-eyed. A girl that age should be in school, not a soldier’s bar. Problem was, the last years of Lord-General Rakkuu’s aggressive campaign to topple the Coalition had frayed what little was left of society’s edges. Unnecessaries such as education had been the first to go. People were too busy reeling from the horrors of war, too numb to salvage their humanity in the shadow of unbearable atrocities.

Would the treaty with the Coalition make things better or worse? Who knew? It was a time of change. Finn intended to land feetfirst like he always did.

“What orders, Captain?” Zurykk repeated.

“We’re to dock at the Ring of the Goddess no later than Septumday morning.”

“The Ring?” Zurykk searched his face and choked. “Gods, you’re serious.”

“As a plasma burn, aye.”

“We’re gonna run for it, though, aren’t we? We’re not going to show up.” Zurykk absorbed Finn’s determined expression and downed the last of his drink. “You’re crazy.”

“An optimist.”

“A fool!” In the glare of Finn’s disapproval, the man added, meeker, “Captain, sir.” He slammed his glass to the counter and exhaled loudly. “The question isn’t whether you’ll be executed, Cap’n, but whether it’ll be public or private.”

“Private, I hope. If that smart-noose curls around my neck, I plan to spend my last breaths on obscenities raw enough to make Stone-Heart blush.”

“You need blood to blush,” Zurykk pointed out.

Finn chuckled. “Aye, you do, that.” Blood was something that cold bitch surely didn’t have. “Gather everyone up, Zurykk. We’re off.”

Finn took a watchful position by the door as his second-in-command yanked the crew off chairs and out of cots, tearing them from the arms of lovers or from bowls of greasy, cheap, but belly-warming stew. Rakkelle, his latest pilot, pulled her shirt over surprisingly white and delicate breasts. A few red splotches on her skin told him she’d been engaged in activities that had been anything but delicate. Finn hated to interrupt any of it. Without battles to do the job, a crew needed a way to vent energy. Finn would rather it be sex than bar fights that could leave them dead or, worse, badly injured. These days, with medical supplies hard to come by, they needed to preserve what little they had.

With the crew grumbling all around him, Finn walked out into a cold and soaking drizzle. Rakkelle strode alongside him. Again he thought of her breasts, and felt a twinge in reaction to the thought of tasting them. Lusty little Rakkelle wouldn’t mind, but Warleader Finnar Rorkken didn’t sleep with his subordinates. He still had a few principles that went along with his hard-won title. A few.

Fewer principles by the day, he thought, reminded of his precarious situation.

“Zurykk says we’re heading out, Captain,” Rakkelle said.

“Aye. We’re been ordered to the Ring.”

She let out a husky war cry, spinning around to face the others. “The Ring! We’re going to the freepin’ Ring! We’ll slice off their wee little Coalition balls and crack ’em like gornuts!”

The crew roared like they did before a battle.

“Shut your traps!” Finn bellowed. He rested a hand on the butt of his pistol, glaring at the noisy men and few women who knew he’d use that weapon if provoked. “I’ve been summoned to appear by Prime-Admiral Zaafran.”

Boos and curses came in response.

Finn drew the pistol. The laser sight streaked along the foreheads of the suddenly silent crew. His aim was deadly, and they knew it. It was no different from his pirate days: a strong arm kept a Hordish crew in line. “Disrespect of our military orders is to disrespect me. Who dares more disrespect?” He armed the pistol. “It will be your last mistake.”

“But, sir, they’re Coalition.”

“And so are we.” That generated more growls of protest, quickly self-extinguished. “We are one now, one world. We either accept this, or we flounder and fail. I will not fail.” He twirled the nano-pic between his tongue and teeth, glaring at the men and women surrounding him. He counted to ten before he spoke again, quieter. “Am I clear?”

“Aye,” the mumbles went around.

“I didn’t hear you.”

“Aye!”

Finn jerked his chin to the dock. “Let’s move out.”

Ahead, his warship glinted darkly, evilly, a giant amongst the smaller ships in port. His ship, his pride, he thought.
Finn’s Pride.
With most Hordish vessels bearing monikers such as
Blood Wrath, Scourge of Death,
and even
Stench,
his ship’s name was the source of ridicule at first. One by one, his disparagers learned the consequences of that. Now his ship commanded respect, wherever they went.

Finn strode on ahead, letting damp, cool air wash over him. He was going to have to fight to keep his ship, fight to keep his career. It was nothing new. He’d struggled for everything that had come his way, from the moment he was born until now, fighting for every gods-be-damned bite of food, it sometimes seemed. From skinny street urchin to opportunist pirate, to working his way up the ranks of the Imperial Fleet from unwilling conscript to decorated Warleader, he’d busted his ass for it all.

He threw a grateful glance at the heavens in thanks for all the near-misses, lucky breaks and last-minute saves over the course of his life. Someone Up Above took pity on his sorry soul. The gods had been generous with him, aye, but they’d made him sweat for every blasted bone they’d thrown his way.

What is granted can be taken back, no matter how hard you’ve worked to win it.
Finn had learned that lesson well. He threw a dark, regretful glance at his ship. Ah, but it had been good while it lasted….

As if reading his thoughts, Zurykk ventured quietly, “What of the
Pride,
Captain? What of us?”

“I have nothing more to tell.” Finn was well aware that the ears of the crew were hard-tuned to his every word. “Zaafran refuses to explain until I am on board the Ring. Only then will he reveal his news.”
History-making, ground-breaking, life-changing news
had been the Prime-Admiral’s exact words. Finn wasn’t sure what to believe. News might mean a promotion, or the commencement of his war crimes trial. “I asked for more than that, I did, but he told me to have patience.”

The crew was vocal in their disappointment. Of course they wanted to know more. Their fates were tangled with his. In these dark times, the loss of their warleader would be devastating. He was all that separated them from hunger and homelessness. For morale’s sake, he’d keep the pitiful state of the ship’s vault to himself now that he’d coughed up what he owed for the plasma core repairs. For the same reason, he’d keep private his nagging reservations on his summons to the Ring. Zaafran’s “news” was either incredibly bad or incredibly good. Finn had his bets on the former. His heart held out for the latter.

“I
SMELL
H
ORDE
.”
Brit sniffed as she exited the airlock connecting the
Vengeance
to the Ring. Hands clasped behind her back, her posture perfect, she strode forward as Lieutenant Hadley Keyren scurried to keep up with her. “They all have that peculiar stink.”

Hadley wrinkled her nose. It was clear by the girl’s silence that the cloying stench didn’t bother her. Brit would never forget it for as long as she lived.

The Drakken were here, inside the Ring.
Blast this treaty, letting barbarians sully our highest military offices.
“Find out where in the VIP wing I am to stay, Hadley. Set up my quarters as always.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Other than the prime-admiral or you, I do not wish to be disturbed once there. Screen all my calls.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A group of officers passed them in the bustling corridor. “Admiral,” they greeted with respectful nods. “Goddess be with you.”

“Gentlemen,” Brit replied, scanning their faces. Coalition uniforms mostly with an Earthling or two amongst them. But no Drakken. No Horde.

Brit’s hands flexed at the small of her back. Her stomach muscles clenched with tension. “Download the names of my new staff. Include their military history and war records.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I do not want any unknowns serving under me.”

“No, ma’am.”

“Have the data waiting for me with dinner.”

“Broiled rainbow fish, tropical fruit medley, wine—Kin-Kan Vineyards, vintage 6763. Is that right, Admiral?”

“Sixty-three? Yes. Very good, Hadley.”

“Thank you, ma’am.”

Brit stopped in front of Prime-Admiral Zaafran’s suite of offices with a click of her polished, booted heels. An aide scurried into the labyrinth to announce her arrival. “And, Hadley…”

“Yes, ma’am?” The lieutenant’s intelligent blue eyes lifted expectantly, awaiting her next orders. The young officer’s blond hair was knotted in a chignon at the base of her neck, above the rim of her uniform collar as regulations dictated. Once, Brit had been just as sweet and eager to please. But that was before…She set her jaw. “I hope you enjoyed what little there was of your shore leave. It may be some time before we see another.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Then, softer, “Good luck in there.”

“Luck favors those who don’t depend on it, Hadley.” Brit turned, steadied herself and entered the office of her commander as if she owned it.

G
ORGEOUS BABE, TWELVE O’CLOCK
.
With his gaze locked on the slim blonde, Major Ruben Barrientes smoothed a hand over his Air Force blues, wishing he was wearing his flight suit. His USAF Thunderbird insignia always impressed the ladies, but chances were the hot little number in Coalition blacks didn’t speak or read English, and had never heard of the USAF flying demonstration team, a coveted slot he’d vacated when this even more coveted slot was offered to him.

You don’t need no fancy jet patches to make you hot,
he reminded himself. Centering the blonde in his target, he rolled in for the kill.

“Girl, you don’t deserve that,” he said low and in her ear, causing her to whirl around. Those blue eyes were even more gorgeous up close. He wanted to kiss the circle of surprise right off her soft pink lips.

“I don’t know you,” she said.

“You do now.” He flashed what he knew was a killer smile and extended his hand. “Ruben Barrientes. At your service.” Curiosity and wariness filled her narrowed eyes. And attraction, he was sure of it. She wanted him already. “Just call me Tango. Everyone does.” He’d wound up with that call sign because he was Argentine by birth—no matter that he had blond hair and grew up in Texas, it didn’t matter, he was Tango as soon as the squadron heard the remains of his Spanish accent. The pretty little lieutenant wouldn’t know where Texas was, let alone Argentina.

She didn’t take his hand. Instead, her fist landed in the center of her chest: the Coalition version of a greeting. He’d screwed up; he should have done it her way. Months of crash courses in everything Coalition hadn’t polished away all the rough edges. He’d keep working on it. He, Tango, was synonymous with smooth. He aimed to keep it that way.

“I am Lieutenant Star-class Hadley Keyren.”

“So, Hadley—”

“Lieutenant Keyren,” she corrected.

She wanted to keep her distance. That was okay, it wouldn’t last long. She was a good girl; he could tell with one look. Good girls always fell like ripe apples, right into his hands. “So,
Lieutenant,
is General Grouch always like that?”

“Pardon me?”

“‘Get me this, bring me that.’” He sniffed in imitation of the other woman’s rapid-fire demands, hoping his accent didn’t make him too tough to understand. “And you scurrying after her, all sweetness, like the girl in that movie
The Devil Wears Prada.
”

Hadley’s look of perpetual surprise deepened.

“The Devil Wears Prada…”
Did the words even translate? The closest thing to devil was “god of the Dark Reaches.” And Prada? Shit, forget that. In preparation for this assignment, Tango had spent the past twelve weeks in a total immersion course, learning “the Queen’s tongue,” aka “QT,” the language of both the Coalition and the former Drakken Empire. Unfortunately, if the blond babe’s expression was anything to go by, he might as well be speaking Chinese the way he mixed American slang with her words. “Girl, all I gotta say is that you handled that ruthless bitch pretty damn well. Me, I wouldn’t have been so nice.”

Hadley stiffened. “She is my commanding officer.”

He laughed. “My condolences.”

Hadley’s powder-blue eyes turned dark and humorless. Furious. “That was Admiral Bandar.”

“No way. That was Bandar…?”

“Yes.
Admiral
Bandar.”

Tango’s heart dropped. Bandar was his new boss. Bandar was to the Coalition as General Patton was to the United States—and he’d just dissed her in front of her assistant.
Good going, Tango.
He shoved his hand through his fresh haircut and swore. He hadn’t recognized the admiral. The military headshot photo he’d seen was nothing like the reality. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t this—a tall, sleek, comic-book super-heroine complete with patent-leather dominatrix boots and a black commando uniform. All that was missing was a bull whip and he wasn’t so sure the admiral didn’t have one tucked in her belt somewhere; he’d been too busy looking at Hadley and feeling sorry for her.

If he had a tail, right now he’d be tucking it between his legs at the thought of being on the receiving end of Bandar’s displeasure. It was gonna happen, though, sooner or later, so he’d better be ready. His charm wouldn’t work on Bandar. He wouldn’t even try. She’d rip his balls off and spit them out. Unconsciously, he brought his legs together, just in time to hear Hadley in the midst of chewing him out.

“You speak of her with disrespect when you aren’t even worthy enough to utter her name, Earthling.” Her voice had dropped to an angry hiss. “Admiral Brit Bandar is one of our greatest war heroes. She’s
my
hero. She’s a living legend. Many of us owe our lives to her. She’d give hers to save any of ours.”

He lifted his hands in surrender. “Look, I know. I’m sorry. I fu—I screwed up. I was just trying to be funny—to break the ice, since we’re going to be serving together.”

“What do you mean?”

“You work for Admiral Bandar, right?”

“I’m her executive officer, yes.”

“I’m one of the pilots assigned to the
Unity.
We’re going to be stationed together on the same ship.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It was no joke; her confused expression attested to that. How was it possible for her not to know? Unless she and the admiral had just arrived, and…

Tango swallowed. “Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

Hushed mutters nearby drew their attention. Hadley’s eyes widened as a tall Drakken crossed the corridor trailed by two black-suited Coalition security goons. The Drakken wore knee-high boots over leather pants, and a leather vest. His white shirt was more than halfway unbuttoned, held in place by a crisscrossing of rugged weapons belts. Streaks of tattooing and tanned skin peeked out in between the well-worn straps. His expression was hard, his eyes wary, and he needed a shave. Or maybe the ponytail and beads were what made Tango gladly take a step out of his way as the Hordish officer strode past, beads and jewelry clinking. He caught a faint whiff of leather and something that smelled like cinnamon. “There goes Jack Sparrow,” Tango murmured to Hadley.

“Who?”

“Jack Sparrow,
Pirates of the Caribbean.
” Explaining was futile. “It’s another Earth movie. I brought it with me. I’ve got a suitcase full of magazines and DVDs, three thousand tunes on my iPod and plenty of time over the next year to give you a crash course in Earth culture.”

Hadley wasn’t listening to him at all. Her full attention was glued on the Drakken as he disappeared into the waiting room for the prime-admiral’s offices. “Another one of our shipmates, I guess,” Tango said.

“He
is?
”

“Why else would he be here?”

Hadley’s eyes closed. “Goddess…” she whispered and sagged against the wall.

T
HE PRIME-ADMIRAL’S
headquarters commanded a sweeping vista of the outer ring. Hundreds of thousands of portholes glittered, making the enormous, circular space station look like a jeweled band hovering in space. Zaafran was standing in front of his wall of windows, his index finger pressing a PCD to his ear, when Brit entered his private office. “Have him wait in the briefing room once Joss is done with him,” he was saying.

“Admiral Bandar, sir,” one of the security guards announced.

Zaafran ended the communication and strode toward her, his white teeth flashing. She allowed him to hug her. She’d known him for too many years not to.

“Kin-Kan wine before lunch?” the prime-admiral offered.

“You remembered,” she purred.

“Always.”

The table was set for a meal. Set for three, she noted. Hmm. There was to be another guest. Who else would be joining them? She kept her silence—and her impeccable military bearing; the prime-admiral would tell her when he was ready.

Side by side in front of the wall of windows, they sipped the luscious, deep-ruby-hued wine and admired the view. Brit left it up to her superior officer to begin the important conversation or make small talk.

“I want to discuss your new command, Admiral.”

So much for small talk; he was going straight to business. She preferred it that way.

“Brit, we’ve followed orders all our military lives. Some have been easy, some difficult.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Our duty takes us from our loved ones. It takes our own choices, our personal freedom. Yet, we serve because we are a special breed, a breed apart.”

“With all due respect, sir, this is a conversation one might have with a new, untried ensign on their maiden voyage. I’m your most experienced commander. My loyalty, my devotion to duty is something you should expect without question.”

Zaafran compressed his lips as he studied her.

“Without question,” she repeated.

“I know, Brit. You, more than any other officer. But I…You…” He sighed. She’d never seen him speechless. “Better that I show you this first.” He activated the holo-vis. “Display triad.” A silver triangle appeared in front of them, three-dimensional and glowing as it spun slowly in midair. Each edge was a different color. “From the reunification hearings comes this—our future. The Triad. Planet Earth, us and the former Drakken Empire—” he pointed to the blue side of the triangle, the black and finally the red “—form the Triad Alliance. The Coalition as we have always known it is no more.”

Surprise exploded inside her, but her military bearing remained supremely confident and unflinching. One hand cupped her glass of wine; the other she kept pressed behind her, elbow bent, just so. Her shoulders were back, her chin up and her expression serene. In the end, her only reaction to Zaafran’s bombshell was the barest lifting of her left brow. So this was what they’d been cooking up all these weeks during closed-door hearings. She’d suspected as much. Hearing it was another story.

“The Coalition will provide most of the resources and infrastructure for stability in these early stages of reorganization. Earth is too small and backward, of course, and the Drakken Empire is in disarray.”

“So, what you’re saying, Prime-Admiral, is that we’re still in charge.”

His slight smile gave her the answer she wanted. “As it should be,” she murmured, comforted by the knowledge that some things, the important things, hadn’t actually changed. The Coalition had, after all, won the war.

Her commanding officer spoke to the holo-vis once more. “Show next.” The triangle disappeared, replaced by a warship beyond her wildest dreams. It was half again as large as the
Vengeance,
with what appeared to be a double plasma-drive core, overlapping weapons portals and many more decks.

“She’s magnificent.”

Zaafran beamed with pride. “She’s every bit as much a symbol of our future as the triangle I just showed you. Feast your eyes on the first Triad Alliance ship, the TAS
Unity.
Congratulations, Brit. She’s yours.”

“The
Unity?
Bah. What kind of self-respecting battleship is given such a weak name?”

“A new kind of battleship. A ship for a new era. A ship for
diplomacy.
”

Her brow went up again. She was a soldier, a warrior. Not a diplomat. Was this what he was so reluctant to tell her?

“She symbolizes the Triad’s first steps toward the future, united as one. As her captain, you will command a crew consisting of Coalition, Earth and Drakken.”

And Drakken.
So there it was. “I see…” Brit took a delicate, controlled sip of wine, rolling it on her tongue before swallowing. “How many of them?”

“You will command a total of two hundred and twenty officers and enlisted personnel. Of that, our initial mandate requires approximately sixty percent Coalition, thirty-five percent Drakken and five percent Earthling.”